


At First

by Angelas



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alexandria Safe-Zone, M/M, Slow Burn, Unrequited Everything, Unrequited Love, quiet daryl feels, rick being...rick, season 5, tbh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-27
Updated: 2015-07-14
Packaged: 2018-03-19 21:48:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3625446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angelas/pseuds/Angelas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daryl struggles with his awkward feelings during Alexandria.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Try To

**Author's Note:**

> just a small little thing to get season 5 off my chest omg

**oOo**

With time, Rick lingers less.

Looks away. Isn’t there.

Head lost someplace. Someplace far and unmeant for any of them.

And Rick seldom says much these days, talks only in the quickest way he can. Direct. Mandates. Gaze flat, inspecting always the abandoned nothings of the road with Judith cradled into the unwavering L-curve of his arm.

“Daryl. You’ve got a thing for this stuff. Glenn’s been looking. Should be a stream nearby.”

No stream. Not for at least some miles.

Smell of rain.

Best to stop. Best to wait for it with open bottles.

“Yeah,” Daryl nods. “Should be.”

Then he goes.

**oOo**

At first, Daryl doesn’t think much of her.

She doesn’t need it. Not when she’s more of herself than anything else.  

Not with her looking out for the others where the others shouldn’t need much to look out for her.

From where she stands, this close to Rick, she’s tall and strong of arm, sword-thing at her hip, with a voice that carries the heft of her faults, but also the sharp of her reason and cunning.

She swings and the air parts itself for her. She leans on one foot, and always a playful grin glimmers amid the brown dusk of her eyes, whispers things into the wind for only Rick to understand. Things that look to matter. Things Rick likes. Maggie trusts her. Carl likes her. Her hair falls, the night follows.

Much like Rick’s eyes.

In Alexandria, Rick minds her more. Looks more, sees more.

At first, it’s a splinter that only just itches. A thing made to ignore or discard. But then the sore digs in and the blister holes and reddens. And Daryl sees it now like he knows he’s seen it before: the way Rick traces the careful length of her, the moon of her, as if a thirst were there where he knew well it shouldn’t.

A need to touch or speak, but never doing one or the other.

**oOo**

They settle. Or at least try to. Most of them. Not all.

Days get longer, nights go faster.

And on the third, Daryl manages to see it for the first time.

The way Rick begins to go out of his way in setting his voice to a certain sort of way, just for Jessie.

The way Rick manages to get himself a bit closer to her each time whenever he does this. It’s less than an inch for every incident. But soon, a half-inch becomes one. And Daryl’s seen Rick talk to a lot of people in the past, talk to him in the past—same air, same space, like friends or brothers because that’s what Rick called it once—but never like that.

So soft, as if the whole world were made of glass.

She’s small and thin where Daryl’s not. Quaint in all things she does with a feathery truss of yellow hair she ties into a single rope at the back. Daryl sees her now and then. Out at the front of her house, doing all sorts of things that will never matter.

So this time it hurts a little more than before. Bleeds a little more than before. Because at least Michonne, Daryl’s known. Tough, smart. Even Merle thought so.

But now Rick checks up on Jessie so often, with her white skin and picture-perfect smile. Walking by, walking by—sometimes waving, sometimes not. But always looking. Even when the view gets cut, for her, Rick always looks back.

And Rick never looks back.

**oOo**

The next day, Daryl showers.

But only because Aaron keeps telling him to try and join the party everyone’s going to be at that night.

“Who’s ‘everyone’?” Daryl asks.

“Everyone who is anyone.” Aaron laughs. “Here, at least. It’s for you guys. Deanna thought it would—”

“Rick?”

Out of nowhere, Aaron hesitates for a little too long. Clears his throat. Almost like he’d suddenly seen something big that’d been standing right there with them the whole time.

Daryl narrows his eyes, sharpens his voice. “I say something?”

“No—I mean... Obviously, right? Rick, he’s sort of the star of the show.”

Daryl stops, looks at Aaron. He wants to say that no, there is no star. And if there were a star, Rick wouldn’t just be any star. He’d be the sun. But even more than that, Daryl wants to tell Aaron to mind his own and fuck off.

Then again, maybe there’s no point in saying any of that… Thinking any of that.

So Daryl just nods. Walks off.

**oOo**

That night, Daryl decides to go. Even makes it to the front yard.

He waits awhile. Tries twice for the door. But can’t.

Inside, Rick hounds away at Jessie. Jessie smiles at him, holds Judith. Comes closer, giggles at anything he says.

There’s a scratch thrumming at the back of Daryl’s skull that hurts more than most things have, so he leaves his spot from the trees.

When he’s at the end of the opposite street, he looks down and sees that his hands had been shaking. Palms tight. Rigid. He makes it halfway towards nowhere before Aaron stops him, arms crossed and with his back casually balanced against the front door of his house. Daryl just keeps walking.

“Hey, aren’t you supposed to be at the party?”

Daryl shrugs one shoulder, slowing down. “Nah. Too loud.”

Aaron chuckles. Lighthearted. Kind. But it’s that sort of kindness that always gets you killed in the long run. Either way, Daryl stops. Turns around.

“You know, if it means anything, I saw Rick walk in there earlier.”

Daryl looks to the side, a wet itch clawing at his eye. He tells himself it’s rain.

“Yeah,” he says. It’s all he can say.

He stands there, waiting for nothing. He thinks of the prison, of the evasive sort of half-looks Rick used to give him. _Just_ him. Of runs, of quiet evenings up at the tower. Gone.

“Hey,” Aaron calls. “Eric and I, we just got done cooking up way too much spaghetti. The sauce got a little sloppy, but the pasta itself didn’t come out so bad.”

For a moment, Daryl wants to run.

Because it must be so obvious.

Here, in the middle of the lamplight. The thoughts in his head. The shit tremble in his hands that never went away.

And if Aaron sees it, he doesn’t say it. Doesn’t pry. Just smiles, leaves the door open and welcomes him inside.

**oOo**


	2. Alright

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> halfway done with the last part, so the wait won't be as awful as the first time. promise. ;-;

**oOo**

Eric is the sort of person Daryl’s never really met.

Would have never met, had the dead not up and risen.

All smiles and laughter, with a crack at a joke for every thought he gave.

Merle joked some. Laughed some. But not like this.

It doesn’t take long for Daryl to decide that maybe Eric’s presence felt okay. Like something new. Something different.

“You’ll have to excuse Aaron’s horrific pasta skills,” Eric tells him, rummaging about the kitchen for what looked like plates. “But honestly, isn’t the tomato slicing in the sauce just lovely?”

The room falls quiet. Daryl lifts his eyes, looking for Aaron. He’s busy with cups in his hands. He nods quickly.

Daryl nods, too.

“S’fine,” he mutters, clearing his throat.

Good thing, too, since Eric practically beams at him. Even takes the moment to add another clumpful of spaghetti to his plate before handing it over.

When the fork lands next to his hand, Daryl digs in and eats like he means it. Eric sits, and the whole room fills with conversation. Daryl himself doesn’t say much. Just listens, watches through the open rents of his hair every few seconds. Only to see, in all the different ways, how Aaron gazed back at Eric.

A soft glint in his eye. Delicate. As if all the hell going on outside didn’t really matter much.

Didn’t _need_ to matter much...

Not with Eric there at his side.

**oOo**

The next day, in the woods, Rick hands out two of three guns.

Carol takes the one given to her. No questions asked.

When its Daryl’s turn, he backs off. Tells Rick there’s no need to.

Rick’s half-smile falters at that, but his eyes are set in cold stone.

Stern, unreadable. Demur purled low in his brow.

“Alright,” he says, and does not say another word.

**oOo**

That night, the sky is clear and the moon looks like it’s been pulled forward.

Daryl wakes from his spot on the floor, from the front porch of the house he’s been given.

Steel fence to his left, empty house to his right. For a moment, Daryl’s okay with Deanna’s decision. At least this way there wouldn’t be anyone there to ask him questions.

Winds picks up, wafting in reeks of skin and rot. He lies still, counting the leaves that drift off over the wall. The stench fades with them, someplace far. He can see the world moving, how all the three stars in the sky begin to glimmer away from their previous spots.

But even stars disappear. All’s one color. No leaves worth counting. The moon gets small, becomes only half of what it was.

Daryl stands, snatching his jacket from the floor. He slips into it, spitting once over the paling. He lets himself consider going over to Eric’s house, and hates himself for it. He starts pacing, reaching back into his pockets for the worn shape of his lighter. He flings the cap off, brings the orange flame close to his face.

After a while, the heat begins to hurt his eyes. Dry, hot. But not enough.

Quickly, he attempts to light the tail-end of his last cigarette. His hands are shaking. His fingers are cold and stiff.

The way Rick’d looked at him earlier. Sharp, flat. Empty.

It made Daryl want to punch another hole through the wall.

So he does.

His knuckles peel and bleed. It stings like shit. Throbs like shit. He doesn’t care.

He tosses the lighter over the wall and leaves.

**oOo**

He doesn’t make it far.

Not when he thinks he’s seen Rick, staring straight ahead next to the water-pit they kept.

Daryl slows down. Wavers, but knows only that he couldn’t take the turn back around even if he wished it.

He starts walking, heart drumming at the crux of his throat.

At one point, Rick feels him coming. He turns his chin by an inch, his hand going straight to the hilt of his gun faster than even Daryl could see it.

Not two feet back, he stops.

“Hey.”

Rick doesn’t say anything. Just takes his hand away from his belt.

Daryl starts to feel dumb. Standing there, not knowing what to do with his hands. Something like not belonging. Like Rick not wanting him there. Here, then, or anywhere. He turns on his heel, ready to leave.

“Ain’t gotta go if you don’t want to,” Rick says with a snark. He gestures with his hand. “Enough space for everyone.”

There’s an obvious spite in his voice like knives. But Daryl stays, anyway. Takes a step forward.

“Yeah,” he says simply. “Bigger than what we had.”

They’re standing next to each other now.

In silence, but close. Alone, without anyone there to listen. Daryl feels his chest tightening. His stomach taking turns. He looks at the water in the pond, their two reflections merging, and remembers the half-looks from before. The welded linger of Rick’s hand on his shoulder before a morning run, back when the prison still stood. The nods, the hunts they went on. Just them. In the woods. No words, just actions and a mutual goal to get to.

Then he remembers Jessie.

Pale hair and skin. Rick’s look, like he _needed_ her.

Daryl’s throat clenches.

“Carl’s doing fine,” Rick says after a while. “This thing we have going on here. I think he likes it. He’s got friends now.”

“Yeah. He does.”

“It’s a good thing for him,” Rick goes on, never taking his eyes away from the water. “Smiles more. Does more. Runs around like a kid’s supposed to.”

Daryl doesn’t dare himself to speak, so he just moves his head. Rick, he thinks, doesn’t take well to it.

“Back there,” Rick starts, almost careful. “I know what you’re trying to do, what you think you want to do. But it ain’t the right thing. These people,” Rick says, lowering his voice into a whisper. “They ain’t like we’ve been. Like you or me or Carol. Out there. They don’t _know_. We let this go, we die with them. You know that, don’t you?”

Daryl doesn’t answer him.

Almost immediately, Rick grows restless. Hands at his hips, head towards the ground, to the side, and then up. Lips drawn tight, the fabric of his jacket crimping loud in the thick silence between them. Anger or disappointment, Daryl can’t decide. All he knows is that Rick gets quiet, too quiet, for far too long. The sort of quiet he got into back in the woods. A scoff in his throat, or a sneer in his eyes. Daryl doesn’t look.

“Alright,” Rick says. Simple.

And it’s all he ever says before he turns to leave again;

Before Daryl reaches out. Grabs him by the arm, and pulls him back to where he'd been.

**oOo**


End file.
